


Our Kingdoms Crumble Down

by pathera



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dark, Dubious Morality, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, Kidnapping, Loki Has Issues, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Compliant, Not Thor: The Dark World Compliant, Off-screen Character Death, Post-Avengers (2012), Taking Over the World, The warnings make it sound worse than it is, Tony Has Issues, Tony Stark Does Not Make Good Life Decisions, Unhappy Ending, Unhealthy Relationships, ish, these tags are a mess, though it's still not a happy fun fest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-02-20 04:03:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2414270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pathera/pseuds/pathera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony should know better than to trust a villain, he really should. He should also sure as hell know better than to fall in love with one, but hey, since when have Starks ever been known for doing the smart thing?</p><p>Loki is going to take over the world. He's going to make the world perfect, and once he has, Tony Stark is going to rule at his side. Together, they will be unstoppable. One way or another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Let me start by saying that I am a terrible, awful author who has a bad case of constant procrastination and writer's block and thus never finishes things. This story was started ages ago (and by ages I mean over two years) as a fill for a prompt on a kinkmeme. I wrote up this first part, posted it, and...drum roll please, got stuck on the second part and it's been sitting on my computer ever since. So, I'm finally cleaning it up and de-anoning and posting it here as an incentive to FINALLY finish the goddamn thing. Because this was originally written two years ago, before any of the Phase Two movies came out it disregards pretty much everything. Just figure that after Avengers everyone went off on their own for a little while and then came back to be an ass-kicking team. 
> 
> The original prompt: Loki is in a relationship with Tony, but at the same time, he's still battling the Avengers and Shield. When looking at weaknesses, he realizes that if Tony is taken out of the picture, the Avengers lose technological support, a genius who understands the Tesseract better than anyone and a heavy hitter who can fly and actually uses his head in battle.
> 
> Loki kidnaps Tony and keeps him imprisoned (sort of like house arrest) while he defeats the Avengers. When he finally brings Tony back, Loki has taken over the world and turned it into a Utopia. And he wants Tony to rule it beside him forever.
> 
> Warnings for Loki being a dick and Tony being, well, Tony in all of his self-destructive, Stark glory. Actual warnings for unhealthy relationships (seriously, it's Loki, this cannot be healthy), domestic violence, non-consensual drugging, kidnapping, manipulation. In the second part, whenever it comes out, there is at least implied brainwashing, emotional manipulation, and mention of off-screen character death. There's also a couple of scenes where consent is wishy-washy at best, one here and the more dubious one in the second part. Nothing for any of the warnings is graphic, but that last thing I want is to not warn for something and have it upset someone, so better safe than sorry. Let me know if there's a warning I might have missed!

The crown is heavy on Tony’s head, heavier than his helmet ever felt, and he can’t help but imagine the world pressing down on him, the pressure increasing and increasing until his skull cracks, until blood and brain matter leak from his ears and he slumps forward. Maybe he’ll still live on a while longer, body carrying out automatic processes. He’ll breathe, his heart kept beating by the mechanical whirring of the arc reactor, but he won’t be there anymore. He’ll be flesh and metal and no soul.

Morbid thoughts, when the world is at his feet.

+

It’s innocent, Tony tells himself.

( _Nothing_ is ever innocent with Loki, but Tony is a master of lying to himself.)

It isn’t that he doesn’t know how dangerous Loki is—he does, _oh_ he does, he knows that the man is manipulative, and cruel, and captain of the goddamn crazy train. But when Tony walks into his penthouse and finds the god sitting at the bar, a tumbler of something amber in his hand, he seems…well, not harmless, never that, but _subdued_. Softer and sadder, like a rabid animal too worn out to try and bite anymore.

The first time, Tony is coming in from a mission, already suited up, the adrenaline rushing high in him, so it’s an easy thing to strike first and question later. The repulsor is powering up, crackling, and Loki simply smirks and fades out of sight without a single word. Tony holds back his strike, waiting for the attack that is sure to come, for the explosion or the scream of sirens. But there is nothing, and after a moment Jarvis pipes up. “Should I alert Captain Rogers and Director Fury?”

Tony lets his faceplate slide back, glancing around the empty room. “No,” he says. “Pull up the video feed though, let’s figure out how got in here without tripping the sensors.” They comb through the security footage, track back over every moment, and come up empty. As far as he can tell, Loki just _appears_ , gives a cheeky grin in the direction of the cameras, and sits down to have a drink like there’s nothing out of the ordinary.

Bastard.

The second time, Tony pauses in the doorway and considers. There are no obvious signs of villainy afoot. Manhattan isn’t being attacked by dinosaurs, there are no alien motherships in the sky, and there aren’t any reports of Cthulu in the harbor. This is a status quo that he would like to preserve, at least for the moment, so he strides across the room, lifts the glass from Loki’s grip, and takes a sip. “The ’47 is better,” he says, crossing around to the other side of the bar. He slides the glass back to the other man and pours himself his own drink.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Loki replies blandly, and though his expression is blank Tony can sense a smirk hovering behind it.

The third time, a second glass is already waiting for him, and he takes it without a word.

+

“You’re an asshole,” Tony says when a shadow falls across him on the couch. He’s spread out, holding a cold glass to his head in lieu of an ice pack, and every muscle _aches_. His eyes are almost entirely closed because the light sends sharp lances of pain through his head, but he is still aware of the man’s presence, of the way he navigates around the couch and sits on the edge of it. Tony doesn’t have to see to know that he’s being scrutinized, to imagine the faintly smug upturn of Loki’s mouth, or the distantly apologetic gleam in his eyes.

“I’ve been called far worse,” Loki’s smooth voice says. “Should I be insulted by the lackluster of your insults tonight?”

Tony aims a scowl in his general direction, closing his eyes entirely. He shouldn’t—he’s pretty much helpless right now, the migraine rendering him unable to move without the world shifting unnaturally, and he’s in the company of a mildly unstable god who has a tendency to try and take over the world. He’s been battered to hell today, and he’s not fit to take on another battle should Loki decide this is the night he’ll put his master plan—there has to be a master plan, after all—into effect.

He feels a light touch on his forehead, and then a coolness that sinks into his skin, numbing the pounding of his head, easing the ache of his muscles, and he feels himself go limp, the tension draining out of him.

When he opens his eyes, Loki is gone.

“Jarvis, erase the footage of Loki’s presence in the penthouse. All of it.”

“Sir?” Jarvis’s voice replies, and when his AI sounds concerned that means that Tony should probably stop and think about what he’s doing.

“You heard me, Jarvis,” Tony says instead, and closes his eyes again.

+

Tony knows he’ll be there, knows before Jarvis ever tells him, that he’ll be waiting. He takes his time in getting there, extracting himself carefully from his armor, which is dented and scratched, crushed inwards over his chest. He changes his clothes, letting the sweat-drenched ones lay where they fall, washes his hands, and orders Jarvis to shut off the cameras.

“Sir, I don’t think this is a good idea—“

“Jarvis,” he says, and the AI goes silent for a moment.

“Cameras to the penthouse have been disconnected, sir.”

“Audio too.”

“Yes sir,” Jarvis says, his voice cold and clipped. “Is there anything else you require?”

“Monitor SHIELD communications and let me know if any of their conditions change,” he says, and heads for the penthouse.

As he expects, Loki is there, leaning against the bar, his eyes shadowed and his expression controlled. He looks so _composed_ , like he doesn’t give a shit about anything in the world, and Tony can barely keep himself to a walk. He stalks straight up to him, stops about a foot away, and stares him down. Loki doesn’t say a word, just _stands there_ , and Tony wants to destroy him. Wants to get his hands on him and shake him apart until he looks the way that Tony feels; he wants to rake the skin from his body, tear the muscles from his bones, break him down into the absolute nothingness that he is.

Tony realizes that he’s shaking when he glances down at his hands. He is trembling and can’t figure out if it’s from rage or fear or adrenaline; more, he doesn’t care.

He lunges for Loki’s throat, the ferocity of the motion surprising him; his hands close around the man’s neck and he squeezes, pins him back against the bar with his body. Loki’s hands come up, press on his shoulders to shove him away, and Tony keeps his grip for a moment before he loses it, before he stumbles back and comes straight back in swinging. He doesn’t have it in him to _not_  swing, because that would make him a traitor of the worst kind

(make him _more_ of a traitor)

and he isn’t that yet, isn’t the kind of man who can stand in front of someone who almost killed people he cares about and not try to hurt him back.

Loki takes the blows, and pulls his own. Tony knows it, never forgets for a moment that the other man isn’t human. He’s a god or close enough to matter, 

 _(jotuun,_ Thor mentioned once. _Frost giant,_ Loki spat out one night, sitting right there where Tony just had him pinned)

impossibly stronger and faster, and if he wanted to he could snap Tony’s neck. Tony has no armor to protect him, no bursts of energy at his palms, no cocoon of technology that lets him play with the big boys; he is human and mortal and fragile, and he watched people far stronger than him crumble only hours before.

He’s vastly outmatched, but if he wanted to do real damage he would have come in his armor, and they both know it.

Just like they both know that Loki won’t hurt him.

Tony isn’t sure at which point the violence shifts, cannot say which of them begins it, but the blows turn to fingernails that leave blunt marks as they dig in, trying to pull  _closer_ , to clothing that is ripped away with ferocity to expose vulnerable flesh beneath it, to teeth working possessive marks into the base of their necks, to something bright that builds and bursts behind Tony's eyelids, pleasure threading through pain. The end result is the same as the fight that began it, the two of them on the ground, spent and limp, and Tony lets himself lean his head back against Loki's shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Stop trying to kill my fucking team,” he says in a low voice. Guilt makes it hard to breathe, it circles his lungs and squeezes, it knots his stomach, because half his team is laid out in medical and he's fucking cuddling the man who did it to them. 

Loki's fingers thread softly through his hair like an apology, but he makes no such promises. 

At least he has the decency not to lie.

+

The thing that scares Tony sometimes—or at least, that _should_ scare him, if he paused long enough to let it—is that he understands Loki. He can follow the twisting paths of Loki's thoughts as if they're lines of code, he can see the patterns they form, and if he pulls back far enough he can just make out the outline of the shape all his plans will eventually merge into. He can look at Loki and see beneath his skin, notice those flashes of guilt and grief and loss that he tries to hide so well. 

The thing is, there is a reason behind all of this. There is a why that is the driving force behind all of their interactions, a  _why_ that lead to Loki sitting at the bar in his penthouse apartment, a  _why_ that lead to the nights that Loki shows up in his bed. Tony knows there is a why. 

He doesn't ask what it is. He doesn't question what they are dancing towards, because if he knows he'll have to try and stop it. 

(Stopping it, Tony thinks sometimes, is impossible. Loki is a force of nature pressed into bone and flesh, mischief and fury and chaos. There is no  _stopping_ him--

\--but Tony is an engineer, and Tony does the impossible, and sometimes it just takes a loophole. Maybe stopping Loki isn't the key. Maybe there's another way all together.)

+

Two days after the team moves into the newly christened Avenger’s Mansion—which has been carefully stripped of everything that reminds Tony of his childhood, fashioned into a place that he can stand to stay in—he finds Loki in his room. He shuts the door behind him quickly, lest someone walk past and see, and Loki turns towards him.

“Did you think you could hide from me?” the god asks, smirking.

Tony blinks. _I didn’t realize I was trying to_ , he thinks. Never questions if maybe he should be, after all.

+

There is an unremarkable night when Loki’s mouth is moving along the curve of his neck and Tony is running his tongue over the raised edges of a scar on the man’s bare shoulder, when suddenly Loki’s fingers tighten in his hair, and his teeth caress the edge of his earlobe, and Tony tries not to shiver.

“Do you still think they’d love you,” Loki whispers, his voice a soft hiss, “if they knew you betrayed them?”

Tony doesn’t jerk away, doesn’t even _want_ to. He turns his head, pressing his cheek against the other man’s, and closes his eyes. He knows well enough that this isn’t about _him_.

“Yes," he says softly. "But that wouldn't stop them from destroying me, if they had to."

Loki’s laugh is breathy, and then his weight is heavy on Tony pressing him back, and Tony lets himself bend.

(He doesn’t ask if that question was about things long past, or the ones still to come.)

+

Loki’s question sticks with him, ticking in the back of his mind, a countdown waiting for detonation.

_Do you still think they’d love you, if they knew you’d betrayed them?_

Tony has run through the hypotheticals of that question a thousand times, calculated the variables, created an algorithm to determine the best and worst possible outcomes, and it seems that no matter what, the conclusions are inevitably bad. At best, he’ll lose the trust of the only people whose opinions actually matter to him, SHIELD will call him compromised, and that will be the end to his role in the Avengers.

At worst, they’ll have to kill him, and Tony knows it.

He has one foot in enemy territory already, can feel it tugging at him like quicksand, and in the end he’ll have to choose a side, once and for all. They won’t be able to take the chance that he’ll make the wrong decision, and they’ll be right because _fuck_ , even he can’t figure out what his decision will be. Because his team is his family, but Starks have a long legacy of betraying the people they’re supposed to love most, and Loki is a creature that he has no words for, dangerous and intoxicating, and Starks have an even longer legacy of being unable to walk away from things that hold the possibility of destroying them.

Point is, if it comes to it, his team—his glorious, screwed up, broken, beautiful nuclear bomb of a team—will put him down like a dog that has turned on its owner.

It will be Bruce, trying to hold back, trying to reason with him until finally the rage will froth up green under his skin and the Hulk will emerge, angry and hurt and thoroughly destructive. It will be Clint, whose hands will shake afterwards, but who will never waver while he’s taking aim, who will bite the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood but will fire anyway and not miss. It will be Thor, gritting his jaw and swinging his mighty hammer, prying Tony out of his suit like a mussel pried from its shell, landing crushing blows that will strike true. It will be Steve, his eyes cold, every inch of him a man who cannot bend even when he desperately wants to, who cannot understand betrayal like this because loyalty and honor are the framework holding him together.

Privately though, Tony has his bets on Natasha. The Black Widow, who would only hesitate for one person, and Tony isn’t him. Natasha is the one who will kill him without blinking, who won’t let a moment of doubt slow her movements. The Hulk is the manifestation of an avalanche, and Thor is god with storms burning in his soul, and Steve is the perfection of a human soldier, but Natasha is death, quiet and inescapable, who will strike the lethal blow before he even knows she is near.

Natasha, he thinks, will be the one to save him from having to make impossible decisions, and he appreciates her a little more every time it crosses his mind.

In his hypotheticals, Tony never blames his team for that will have to do.

+

It would be easier, Tony muses, if there was nothing more to it than sex. Sex is easy, and empty. He is practiced at screwing people and moving on, at breaking it down to biology and physicality and wanton pleasure-seeking. And fucking the enemy—which Loki never ceases to be, no matter what Tony might try to trick himself into believing—is a far more forgivable crime than…well, whatever this actually is.

Because whatever name you put to it, this isn’t simple and it isn’t easy. Loki doesn’t sneak into his room to fuck him and run. They drink and trade insults that Tony spends days coming up with and they sit in silences that are more comfortable than awkward. Tony falls asleep with his back pressed against the heat of the other man’s body—Loki is sometimes blazing hot, sometimes so cold that the chill wakes Tony and he presses closer until Loki finally starts to warm—and he wakes in the middle of the night to find limbs wrapped around him, pulling him tighter, the blankets twisted and discarded around them, and his pillow is always, _always_ stolen out from under his head.

There are nights when they cocoon themselves in his bed, blinking at each other, and they blurt things into the space between them. Stories of misbegotten youths, tiny confessions, little truths—or at least well-told lies, he can never really be sure.

And more than once he comes gasping awake, dreaming of water closing over his head or of watching the steady blue light in his chest flicker and die, and it is the hands on his shoulders and murmured reassurances whispered in the dark that keep him from crying out. Other times he wakes to the sound of pleading, desperate wrenching words in a language he doesn’t understand, or the whimpers of a lost child, and it is his turn to draw Loki out of dreams.

Life outside moves on. Tony works on new inventions and fiddles with the design of his newest Iron Man suit and heads out to save the world on a regular basis. He goes to galas and charity benefits and big fancy parties, where he’s expected to strut around with a beautiful woman on his arm. And he does, of course he does, takes a different girl each night, plays his part to perfection, then comes home and lets Loki peel him out of his expensive suits, feels Loki’s mouth shape the word _mine_ as it moves across his skin.

And for every soft moment, for every time that Tony thinks _maybe_ , there is an equal moment of shattering ferocity, where Loki comes to him with blood caked under his nails and smoke clinging to his clothes, and if Tony flipped on the news he would see headlines that tell a story of destruction and death, and he _hates_ Loki, god, he _does_. He pours every inch of that hatred into the scratches he claws into Loki’s back and the spread of bruises along his hips and he isn’t satisfied until he has the coppery taste of blood on his tongue, until Loki is hissing and whimpering and begging beneath him.

Those nights, Tony thinks _screwed, so very screwed,_ and tosses it to the wind like a broken prayer.

+

Tony is honestly amazed that he manages to keep his fucked-up facsimile of a relationship with Loki a secret for as long as he does. Still, it’s a matter of time, and on the day he finds Clint waiting for him, he isn’t really surprised. Clint is sitting by the window, the lights off, and Tony opens his mouth to make some snarky comment-- _way to be creepin’ Barton_ \--but it dies on his lips when his friend turns towards him.

Tony nudges the door closed and folds his arms. “How’d you know?” he asks, and Clint shrugs.

“I didn’t get my codename at a frat house, Stark. I see things.”

“A, I’m still not convinced that SHIELD isn’t some weird fraternity and if I ever find Fury with a paddle I’m out, and B, if you’ve been hiding in the air vents again—.” But Clint doesn’t smile, and Tony falls silent, studying the man across from him. Clint isn’t armed, but that makes him no less dangerous; he’s no Natasha, not the graceful, elegant killer that she is, but he is still a weapon, forged and crafted and stained with blood.

Tony isn’t afraid of him.

He seems to make a habit of that—of not being afraid when he probably should be. Pepper swears that he has no survival instinct, but a cave in Afghanistan taught him otherwise. He’s pretty sure that there’s just a destruction button encoded in his genes, one that he constantly wants to press, and see whether or not he’ll go up into flames.

“So,” he says after a long minute. Clint can win staring contests against everyone except Natasha, and that’s only because she has a tendency to inflict violence before it reaches the point where she might lose. Wisely, Clint doesn’t play with her anymore.

“Has anyone told you that you’re an idiot?” Clint asks.

“It’s been mentioned. Once or twice. People usually have the decency to say it behind my back though. Unless they’re Pepper. But she likes to throw in other words too, you know, suicidal, reckless, going to get myself killed, hit my head one too many times, that sort of thing. SHIELD likes to throw around egotistical, can’t imagine why—“

“Stark. Stop rambling at me.”

Tony does, because Clint has his serious face on and because if he doesn’t he’ll keep going forever and Clint really will kill him, if only to shut him up.

“Do you have any idea of what you’re doing?”

Sure he does. He’s in a…a… _thing_ with an unstable Norse god who has enough issues to put his list to shame and who makes a regular habit of trying to take over the world.

Clint runs a hand through his hair, looking tired. “Don’t answer that, of course you don’t. God, Tony—“ he cuts off with a frustrated huff of breath, and Tony knows. He really does, because that’s what he feels like half the time these days, like he can’t breathe, like he can’t even _think_ because if he does he’ll have to consider what is going to happen and he _can’t_. “You can’t trust him.”

“I know.”

“It’s going to end badly.”

He shrugs. “I know that too.”

The archer sighs. “He’s not going to change, you know. He’s not going to get _better_ thanks to the powers of your magical healing cock—and I swear I will shoot you if you laugh right now,” he says without the slightest change of expression when Tony cracks a grin. “He’s going to manipulate you until you have no idea what’s truth and what’s lie. By the end, your entire world is going to be made of illusions, and you’ll be stumbling around, trying to find what’s real, if anything is at all. That’s what he does to people. He unmakes them, bends them into whatever shape suits him best, because we’re _toys_ to him, play-things that he can toss aside once he breaks us.”

There is part of Tony that rears up and says _he’s not like that_ , while another part of him says _no, he’s **exactly** like that_ , and Tony knows which of those two voices is right and which is playing a long game of delusion. Clint’s eyes are flat, the way he looks when he’s locking away the things that trouble him, when he’s breaking himself down into the flawless mechanical sequence of aiming and firing.

Tony forces his voice to work, finds himself only able to say “I know” one more time.

Clint shakes his head, his grin bitter. “No, I don’t think you do,” he says, and walks for the door. Tony doesn’t move out of his way, lets the man pass around him, waits until he has almost gone.

“You never asked me why,” he says, not turning around.

Clint is quiet, and the only reason Tony knows he is still there is because he can hear his breathing. “He was in my head, Stark. Sorted through it like you look through a box of chocolate, picking out what he wanted, ignoring what he didn’t. But he liked me. Wanted to keep me. Whispered promises into my mind, told me I’d be his general, I’d lead his troops, that he’d release me from the control if I joined him, that I could have whatever I wanted. He doesn't really like forcing people, you know. He'd rather twist them 'round till they join him because they  _want_ to." He pauses. "I thought about it," he admits. "Just for a minute, I thought about taking what he offered. So trust me, Tony, I get why." 

Tony closes his eyes. “Do you hate him?”

“Tell him that if I see him here, I’ll put an arrow through his eye. And this time, he won’t catch it.”

The door opens and closes with a soft click.

“I’m not sure if that was a yes,” Tony mutters to the empty room.

+

“I’m sorry,” Loki says, when Tony’s vision blurs, and Tony wishes he could believe it, but betrayal tends to burn optimism out of him.

“Fuck you,” he tries to say, but it comes out as a gargle of nonsense, his tongue too heavy, his head spinning to wildly, and he pitches forwards, legs giving out beneath him. Loki catches him, eases him down into a chair, keeps hands on his shoulders to hold him steady. He wants to push him away, but he’s steadily losing feeling in his limbs, can’t control his body, and he _hates_ that, feels panic licking at his insides.

And Loki knows him well enough to see it. “Shh,” the god says. “It’s a simple potion. You will take no ill-effects from it, but do not try to fight it.”

Tony looks up at him through blurry eyes, his figure distorted, features little more than shadow. But he can still make out that Loki isn’t smiling, isn’t gloating; his mouth is faintly down-turned, and his hands are gentle when the brush the hair out of Tony’s eyes, and maybe his remorse isn’t deception. Tony can feel his body relaxing against his will, can feel the darkness of sleep crowd at the edges of his consciousness.

“Close your eyes, Anthony, and sleep.”

Tony does.


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh thank fuck, I think this thing is finally done. I have been wrestling and wrestling with this thing and I'm still not completely happy with it, but here, please god take it. I'm not sure any of it makes sense and everyone is probably out of character but I DON'T CARE ANYMORE IT'S DONE HALLELUJAH. 
> 
> Warnings are all in the first chapter, but let me just reiterate here that Loki is a dick. Loki is a great big bag of dicks and it comes through in this chapter. 
> 
> Fair warning that there is a lot in this that is up to interpretation, and I did purposely try to leave the ending open. I do have an idea of how a sequel would go and one day I might even try to write it. At the very least there might be some scenes and snippets that show up regarding some background stuff and behind the scenes moments. Also, my favorite bit of fanon regarding Darcy did slip its way in here, so there's a little smidgen of it if you squint. 
> 
> And finally, thank you so much to everyone who left kudos and comments on the first part! Sorry to keep you waiting!

He is suffocating. Immobilized, ropes around his limbs, and he can’t _move_ , he can’t _breathe_ , the water is closing over his head, fuck not again—

“Easy, easy,” a voice says, guiding him out of the panic. There are hands on his shoulders, and the fabric loosening around him is a sheet, not rope, and he could breathe if only he could take a breath. “You are okay,” the voice says. “The disorientation will pass in a few moments.”

Loki. Loki is the one talking, and Tony should be pissed but he can’t remember _why_ , just knows that Loki’s voice is soothing, that he trusts it even though he shouldn’t.

(Why shouldn’t he? He can’t remember…isn’t Loki the enemy?)

There was a drink. He remembers that, a drink that made the world shift.

Betrayal. Right. He remembers now, and when he gets his hands around Loki’s neck he’s going to _squeeze_. Let’s see what a god looks like when he’s being suffocated, yeah, that sounds like a wonderful idea right now. He’ll squeeze until he feels vertebrae pop, until Loki gasps and chokes, and maybe he won’t even let go, maybe he’ll just squeeze until he sees what it looks like when a god dies….

Tony opens his eyes.

There is an unfamiliar blank white ceiling above him, and Loki is leaning over him, one hand still on his shoulder, the other pressed against his cheek, thumb grazing across his cheekbone. It’s an intimate, soft touch, one that should feel wrong because Loki fucking _drugged_ him and kidnapped him and Tony wants to beat the shit out of him, but it’s comforting instead because Tony is fucked up somewhere in his head. As soon as he gets the feeling back into his limbs he’s going to destroy Loki, but he leans into the touch anyway, just a bit, just until then.

“Do you feel any ill effects?” Loki asks.

“Extreme rage?”

Loki tsks. “Pity. I was rather hoping for a longer period of memory loss. You are much easier to deal with when you are not homicidal.”

“Don’t fucking kidnap me and I won’t want to kill you,” Tony replies, and tries to push himself up. Loki presses him back with the hand on his chest.

“I do not suggest any vigorous activity for several hours. You have been asleep for a little over two weeks.”

“…Bullshit.”

“No,” Loki says. “Seventeen days. I would have kept you asleep longer if there would not have been adverse effects on your health.”

“Am I supposed to say thank you for that? Because, here’s a hint, I’m not going to. I don’t make a habit of thanking my kidnappers for not turning me into a vegetable.”

“Gratitude has never been your strength,” Loki remarks lightly. “Nevertheless, do try not to injure yourself after I have gone to such lengths to bring you here unharmed.”

“Yes, because making _you_ happy is of course my life goal at the moment. Fuck off.”

Loki smirks and swings himself onto the bed, straddling Tony, knees on both sides of his hips, his weight heavy. He leans low over him, hands on either side of Tony’s head, his breath a fluttter over his skin. “Let me impress on you your current situation, Tony. You are weak right now,” Loki whispers. “Nearly helpless. You don’t have the strength to fight me, and there is no one near who could come to your aid. You are at my mercy, darling.” He brushes his thumb over Tony’s lips, then down the curve of his neck, resting his hand loosely around Tony’s neck, an implied threat. “I can stop you from breathing.” He slides his hand further down, settling it firmly over the curve of the arc reactor, never looking away from Tony’s eyes. “I could pluck this right out of your chest and watch as your heart is torn apart by shrapnel. I’ve imagined that. You would be beautiful in your death throes. Still so defiant, even when betrayed by your own body. Make no mistake, Tony—in this moment, I am your master. I am the one who holds sway over your life and death.” He smiles. “You should fear me.”

Tony stares up at him. He feels strung, a violin string wound too tightly, each breath sharp and shallow; he is impossibly aware of the tightness of Loki’s fingers around the arc reactor, blunt nails digging crescents into the surrounding skin, of the heavy weight of Loki’s body over him, of the _pressure_ , of the ache that spreads through his entire body, one he cannot put a name to. Loki is right, and Tony knows it—he can’t even lift his arms enough to push against Loki’s shoulders, much less to fight if Loki really wants to do as he threatens.

Except, Tony knows that Loki won’t. He knows that Loki _wouldn’t_ , that Loki won’t do anything to him that he can’t fix, no matter what he says. No matter how tightly his fingers grasp the arc reactor, he won’t ever twist, won’t ever _pull_ unless he has a safeguard, unless he has a way to undo what he does.

Tony laughs. It is harsh and edged with hysteria and sounds more like a dying crow, but he laughs and Loki’s grip loosens. “I’m not afraid of you,” he spits, and grins up into Loki’s face. “You stupid fuck.”

Loki stares at him, and then he laughs. The sound breaks out of him, more of a choke than a laugh, but it travels through his entire body, until he is just shaking with it. He is still laughing when he covers Tony’s mouth with his own, subsiding tremors before he becomes a wave that crashes over Tony, teeth and tongue and nails, peeling Tony out of his clothing, moving him like a marionette when Tony can’t manage to coordinate his muscles into following direction. And Tony hasn’t forgotten where he is or who he is with or how much he wants to _hurt_ Loki, how much he wants to slam the man’s head against a wall or crush his ribs one by one, but he settles instead for trying to leave scars, for gritting out “I. Am. Not. Afraid. Of you,” with every thrust of Loki’s body against his, punctuating every word with his teeth against Loki’s skin, as if he can gouge the words into his flesh and make him learn and make him sorry.

“ _Good_ ,” Loki hisses into his neck with a final vicious thrust, biting hard into the skin there and laughing as Tony follows him over the edge.

+

“So what’s your plan, big bad?” Tony asks, stretching his legs and testing their strength. Loki is across the room, sprawled haphazardly in a chair, his legs thrown over the side. “C’mon, hit me with your best monologue, I know you’ve been practicing.”

Loki snorts. “I do not intend to be one of your foolish mortal Bond villains, Tony.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he replies, examining the bed frame. It’s solid wood, sturdy and heavy. Tony abandons it and moves on to look at the wall lamp, mentally calculating how many things he can build out of its parts and which one will be most useful in breaking him out. “Seriously, what’s your master plan? Take over the world? Been there, done that, you got your ass kicked, how many times do you need to get beaten before you give up and take up knitting?”

“Knitting?” Loki asks in an incredulous tone, and Tony shrugs. If he can leverage the lamp off the wall it should be heavy enough to knock Loki unconscious, if applied with the proper amount of force to the back of his head. “I admit to my past failures,” Loki says, “but this time I have an advantage which will secure my victory.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“You will not be able to remove the lamp from the wall,” Loki says instead, and Tony glances at him. “This room has been properly secured in anticipation of your…unique skills.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “You Stark-proofed it.”

Loki grins. “In a manner of speaking.”

“What advantage?” Tony asks, redirecting the conversation as he folds his arms across his chest.

Loki shakes his head, straightening himself out and standing up. “I believe that is a piece of knowledge that I will keep guarded, for the moment.” He crosses the room to Tony, looking far too smug. “I have business to attend to. I shall return tomorrow, but in the meantime, try to stay out of trouble.” He ducks in for a kiss, soft and almost sweet, and Tony takes it as his moment, throwing his weight behind a punch. Loki stops his fist with a single hand, and grasps Tony’s other wrist before he has a chance to switch tactics, muscling him back up against the wall and pinning him with his body. “Now, now, Tony, we’ve already had our play today. Be good.”

“Do you even _know_ me?” Tony asks, trying to wriggle out of Loki’s grasp, which only serves to tighten it further.

“Intimately,” Loki says with a smirk. He steals another kiss—Tony bites his lip out of spite—and then releases him. “Rest, and regain your strength. You can try to escape tomorrow. I expect as much.”

“I never do what’s expected of me,” Tony says.

Loki smirks. “Yes. That’s what makes you interesting. Sleep well,” he says, and is through the door faster than Tony can react. Once the door is sealed it disappears, seams fading into the wall. Tony examines it closely and finds it solid, as if there were never any door at all.

“Tony-proof,” he says aloud, surveying the room. “Let’s see about _that_.”

+ 

By the time Loki finally appears again, Tony has run through every possible scenario, demolished the entire room, and watched it knit itself back together fifteen times. Nothing in the room will burn, despite his best attempts, nothing holds an edge sharp enough to inflict damage, nothing stays broken long enough for him to create anything, and things which are solid and heavy become light and soft in his hands. There is nothing that can be used as a weapon, not even against himself—even the walls and floor become pliable when he throws himself at them, like the padded walls of an asylum.

Tony-proof.

He is in the process of taking the bed frame apart for the sixteenth time when there is a whisper of sound behind him. He glances up long enough to confirm that Loki is standing in the now present doorway before he pries the next piece of wood up.

“It will reconstruct itself,” Loki says.

“Yeah, thanks. Figured that one out the first fifteen times. And any attempts to escape are futile, I won’t be able to hurt you, yada yada yada.”

“All of your needs have been accounted for, and food will be provided daily—“

“Oh, so you’re playing _nice_ captor. How kind of you. Fuck off.”

“I wanted you to be comfortable.”

Tony stills, hands tightening around the piece of wood in his hand, which he badly wants to take and bash against Loki’s skull. He controls himself and stands, turning slowly and crossing his arms over his chest. “You wanted me to be comfortable,” he says evenly, and Loki’s expression is so fucking _earnest_ that Tony wants to…wants to…god, he doesn’t even know.

Maybe this is what Bruce feels like all the time, rage and destruction tucked under a thin veneer of control.

“What’s the plan, Loki? Put me in this cage of yours and watch me go mad? Kidnap me to distract the team while you do something nefarious? It won’t _work_. They’ll find me. Just a matter of time. And this time, when we beat you, you’re going to stay down. You’re going to grovel for mercy and you aren’t to get it, because we’re going to end this, Loki. We’re going to finish it.”

“Yes. We are.”

Tony shifts, because that answer sounded too confident, too sure that this clusterfuck will indeed end, but will go the way that Loki wants it to. He takes a step forward. “Tell me your plan. Are you gonna hold me hostage and demand your own country and a pony? Use me as bait? What? C’mon. Spin me a story, Liesmith.”

Loki steps forward as well, bring him into Tony’s personal space, close enough that Tony imagines he can feel the crackle of power and heat dancing over the god’s skin. It would be so _easy_ , to lift his hands and fasten them around Loki’s neck and _squeeze_ , or to lurch forward and press him against the wall like nothing ever happened, like maybe they can still be salvaged. Tony would rather that, violence or forgetting to this limbo of not knowing.

“You think yourself expendable,” Loki says, and it isn’t quite a question. The expression on his face isn’t one that Tony has ever seen before, isn’t one of the many that he has memorized and catalogued; it is a shade shy of smug, but bittersweet at the edges. “You underestimate yourself.”

“Have you _met_ me? My ego is the size of it’s own country. But if you think my team is going to fuck around and pick saving me over saving the world you’re even more cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs than I thought.” 

“You aren’t bait,” Loki says. “You are no hostage, no pawn to be used in negotiations, no distraction. You are not expendable.” There is something fever-bright in his eyes, something that scares Tony and makes his breath catch at the same time. “You are the key, Tony Stark. The point around which your team revolves. The thread that will be their unraveling.” 

Tony stares at him, then shakes his head sharply. “You can’t rule the world, Loki. It’s too big, even for someone with your ego.”

“Perhaps. But I can rule part of it.”

And Tony thinks that _yeah_ , he probably can. If Victor Von Doom has his own country, there’s some part of the world that will give before Loki, let him slide into the spot of leadership, and he’ll grow from there.

“People will fight. Whatever you think of us lowly mortals, we won’t lay down to be ruled. They’ll fight, and the Avengers will stop you, and you’ll _lose_.”

Loki smiles, soft and open and his eyes gleam. He touches Tony’s cheek, and Tony fights down simultaneous impulses to jerk away and to lean in, keeping himself still. “We’ll see,” the god says, and vanishes, not even having the decency to pretend like he needs a door.

Tony bites the inside of his cheek and turns back to the bed, which has been restored to its original state. “Fucking magic.”

+

Time passes. Tony isn’t sure how much—his sense of time, never the most reliable, crumbles without any frame of reference except for Loki’s sporadic visits. He thinks it’s a week, maybe closer to two. Loki brings him books and notebooks and pencils to occupy his time, but doesn’t tell him anything of what’s going on outside his four walls. Sometimes he comes and Tony _knows_ that he’s just won a battle—he is almost manic, his eyes bright and his grin just this side of crazy and he is always more demanding, more possessive. Other days he is calmer, almost sweet—it is always _almost_ with Loki—and on those days Tony has the terrifying feeling that Loki isn’t just winning battles, he’s winning a _war_.

Tony covers the room with technical drawings and schematics, designs half a dozen new inventions and four new Iron Man suits. He reads until the words blur and writes out long equations, quite possibly solves Goldbach’s conjecture, and creates long convoluted plots for his escape. Anything to keep from going mad.

He’s not sure it’s working.

(It was easier, he thinks, in that cave in Afghanistan. There, at least, he knew he was going to die. He knew what they wanted and he knew that when he didn’t provide they were going to kill him, painfully and probably slowly, but he would definitely die. He could think clearly, because he knew what awaited him the moment he stopped being able to think. Here, he has none of the same certainty. Here, it is harder and harder to focus.)

And then, one day, the door opens.

The last person that Tony expects to walk into his cage—as comfortable a captivity as it is, with its newly added couch and all, it’s still a fucking cage—is Darcy Lewis.

Well, no, actually. The last person he expects is probably Ghandi, or maybe Elvis, but he still has a _long_ list of people that he would have guessed before Darcy. And yet, it’s Darcy—delightfully sarcastic, has a great rack not-that-he-was-looking, let-me-tell-you-about-the-time-I-tased-Thor, Jane’s assistant Darcy—who lets the door click closed behind her and gives him a small smile. There’s something familiar about the quirk of her lips, something sad and sympathetic in the back of her eyes, but she isn’t here to play the hero. She’s too composed, too smooth, too steady.

“I guess you’re not the cavalry,” he says.

She takes a seat on his couch and he stands across from her, arms folded. “Good guess. How are you, Tony?”

He shakes his head. “What did he promise you, Darce? Your own country? Will Smith? Control of the internet?”

She snorts, looking for all the world like the girl he thought he knew, the snarky lab assistant always looking out for her brood of scientists like a mother hen. “As if I would ever sell out for less than George Clooney. C’mon Tony, I’ve got class.”  

He narrows his eyes. “What was it really? Wealth? Power? I didn’t take you for that kind of girl, Darcy, but we all know I’ve got terrible people skills. I could have written you a check if you were that desperate, or bought you a country to rule.”

Her smile doesn’t fade entirely, but it does shift to the side, into something sad and soft. “You of all people should know that it’s rarely that simple, Tony.”

He does know. He knows, and it makes him twist inside, makes him want to lash out. “Whatever he promised you was a lie. Jesus, Darcy, how can you—,” he cuts off, shaking his head. “Did you just back what you thought was the winning side? Decide to save your own skin? What about your friends? What about _Jane_? Your best friend? You do remember that she’s dating your new boss’s brother, don’t you? Did you think about what will happen to her if he wins?”

“He’s not going to kill Jane,” she says, and she is so _sure_ that it is painful.

“Did he promise to spare her? Did he say that he wouldn’t hurt the people you loved? He _will_ , Darcy. He’ll make them bleed and scream and destroy every last bit of them, and every word he said to you was a lie—“

“No, Tony.” She says it so simply that his mouth snaps shut and he slumps, sitting across from her. She takes a breath. “I’m not saying that he isn’t capable of that. Of course he is. But it doesn’t _have_ to be like that.”

“Are you doing his PR now, Darcy? What’s your slogan, ‘we promise not to _completely_ maim and destroy you, so vote Loki, or else?’ Do you think that if you believe in him and follow him he’s just going to magically be a better person and not kill everyone you love?”

“No,” she says. “People are going to die. People already _are_ , Tony. There’s a war outside these walls, whether you like it or not. People we know and care about are probably going to be casualties. But maybe we can save some of those people.”

He laughs shortly. “Optimism, Darcy?”

She glares at him. “You can’t see it, can you?

“See what?”

She sinks back against the cushions of the couch, looking tired. “There was a time when Loki just wanted to destroy everything. Then he got the idea that he wanted to rule instead, but at the root of it he still wanted destruction. He wanted to stand over people and have them fear him, wanted to set fires and watch them burn through everything. That’s why he always failed, and we both know that. He was too busy being that kid at the beach who plows through everyone’s sandcastles to ever actually have a chance. It’s not like that, this time. He actually wants to _rule_ , and not over something broken. He isn’t a supervillian throwing a tantrum this time, he’s a king leading a conquest, and he wants to do it as peacefully as possible. So the question, Tony, is what changed?”

He stares at her. “You’re crazy.”

She shrugs. “Possible. But you know the answer.”

“What? You think that he’s just going to be a nicer person and less of a homicidal maniac because he _likes_ me? Grow up, kiddo, this isn’t third grade, you don’t give people countries when you have a crush on them.”

“All I’m saying is that you have more influence over him than you think. He’s not going to stop just because you ask him to, but he’s doing everything he can to make it as bloodless as possible.” She stands, heading for the door. “He doesn’t want you to hate him.”

“Too late.”

She turns, leaning against the door. Her lips twist as if she’s bitten into the rind of a lemon, and she sighs. “If that were true, can you imagine what would happen outside these walls? I can, and trust me Tony, I really don’t want to see it come true.”

( _They would die, they would all die, bloody and fearful, and Loki would laugh deep and loud in a way that rattled down into his chest, he would laugh and his eyes would be wild and he would take pleasure in it, pleasure in the destruction and the fear and the pain, nothing like sanity anywhere in him. What the Chitauri wrought would be nothing. It would be fury and pain and done with viscous intent, and it would be Tony’s fault, it would be Tony’s fault, he would walk over mountains of corpses with faces he knew and hear their bones cracking under him, and it would be **his fault**_.)

+

“I have brought you a gift,” Loki says. He’s done his materializing bit and Tony doesn’t even bother to look up. He’s trying to work out the possibilities of a serum to suppress Loki’s magic but he needs Bruce for the biology and really he ought to have the opinion of someone in-the-know about magic. Thor maybe, or someone up on Asgard, anyone but Stephen fucking Strange, god, Tony _never_ wants to listen to Strange prattle on about magic for an hour and a half again, which is what happens _every single time he shows up._

Loki clears his throat and Tony glances up at him, eyebrows raised. He is standing more primly than usual, his back straight and his shoulders set. Tony would venture to call it hesitant.

 _Good_ , he thinks, _let the fucker squirm._

“I have a gift for you,” Loki repeats.

“Unless it’s my ticket out of here or your surrender because you’ve finally realized how badly you’re going to be beaten, I don’t want it.”

Loki scowls at him. “I have brought you a gift to display my intentions, Anthony. To show you that I do not wish for your unhappiness. I can be merciful.”

Tony puts his pencil down and swivels around. “Well that’s ominous,” he says, and then the door opens, and then Pepper is being prodded into the room by someone on the other side, pale and wane and her hair is mussed and her eyeliner is smudged but it’s _Pepper_ , alive and whole and there’s not a scratch on her. Her mouth is set in a thin line as she walks into the room, but when she sees him she stops cold, her hands flying to her mouth.

“ _Tony_ ,” she breathes, and then she is dashing across the room towards him and he meets her halfway and she feels thinner in his arms than he remembers, more fragile, but she’s okay, she’s _okay_ —

Loki is silent and watchful on the other side of the room. Tony stares at him over Pepper’s shoulder, holding her tight, and there is a look on Loki’s face, a silent _see? See how merciful I can be?_

“Kidnapping my friends is a funny way of showing mercy, Loki,” Tony says. Pepper’s head jerks up and she glances around, swallows a gasp when she sees Loki, but it’s okay, Tony is stepping in front of her anyway, is putting himself between her and Loki, one of his hands wrapped tight around her wrist. “Is that really what you think this is? Or are you just trying to show off how easily you can hurt the people I love?”

Loki tilts his head. “The people you love have always been vulnerable to me, Anthony. You let me creep inside walls they thought so solid and safe. You ordered your artificial intelligence to ignore my presence and tell no one of my movements. If I had wanted to harm them, if I had wanted to harm _you_ , it would always have been so _very_ easy.”

“What is he talking about?” Pepper is whispering behind him, as in front of him Loki takes a step, his hands spread almost pleadingly.

“Don’t you see, Tony? I have brought your Virginia Potts to you, unharmed. She will be safe here, under our protection, away from any harm that might come to her beyond these walls.”

Tony bares his teeth in an approximation of a grin. “Stick her in a cage like you did with me, and call it protected.”

Loki’s eyes are reproachful now. “She is an offering of peace, Tony.”

 _She’s a bargaining chip to hold over my head_ , Tony thinks, but doesn’t say it because Pepper is digging her fingernails into his wrist like a warning, because Loki’s expression has turned hopeful, because Loki is taking another step forward towards him and Pepper is recoiling behind him. “I will do my best to protect those who bear loyalty to you, Anthony. To shield those you love from harm.” Loki’s mouth turns up in a sad smile. “I have no desire to cause you pain.”

 _Too late,_ Tony thinks.

He doesn’t say anything at all, and Loki looks at him for a long moment before nodding. “I leave you to reassure yourself of her safety,” Loki says. “Someone will come later and bring her to her own quarters, but you may see each other whenever you wish. You simply need to ask.” The god disappears and Tony feels Pepper sag behind him.

“Making friends, Tony?” she says dryly, but her knees are shaking and he can hear the confusion, the accusation in her voice as he leads her over to the couch and sits her down.

“Something like that,” he replies.

+

Pepper wheedles the whole sordid affair out of him, of course. It doesn’t take much, not when she is scared, not when Tony is the reason why she’s now locked up in their pretty little cage. He doesn’t bother lying; there’s no point to it, not when she is the one person who has always forgiven even the worst of his sins, when she is the one who can always tell his lies even if she doesn’t call him on them.

A few times, as he talks, her hands twitch in her lap, like she wants to slap him. He almost wishes she would, but at the end she just sighs and takes his hand, lacing their fingers together.

“Are you in love with him?”

“With the kidnapping, murderous, insane Norse god?” Tony starts, and drops the rest of the quip when Pepper gives him the serious face. He is quiet, considering. He drags his free hand through his hair.

“I think I hate him,” he says softly.

(Should, he _should_ hate him.)

Pepper doesn’t say anything, just watches him, waiting. Tony stares at her and then swallows. “I think I _deserve_ him,” he finds himself saying. Whatever _that_ is supposed to mean.

Pepper closes her eyes. “I was afraid of that,” she says. She leans her head back, exposing the long lines of her neck. “We knew Loki had taken you, obviously. Jarvis alerted the team the moment he took you, and Clint admitted that you had been in contact with Loki previously.” She lifts her head to frown at him. “I suppose _he_ knew the nature of that contact, but he kept it quiet.” She sighs. “Everyone was looking for you, Tony. The Avengers, the X-Men, the Fantastic Four, SHIELD—the entire world was looking.”

Tony feels sick. He can see where this is going, he can see it now, like Loki’s plan is unfolding right in front of him. “They were so busy looking for me—“

“That we didn’t notice what else was happening,” she finishes. She runs her fingers nervously across the hem of her shirt, worrying the fabric. “So we weren’t ready when they struck. A coordinated attack, nation-wide. Avengers Tower, the Baxter Building, Xavier’s mansion, the Helicarrier and the Triskelion, anywhere where there was a concentrated population of superheroes.” She meets his gaze. “And anywhere there was a concentrated population of supervillains.”

Tony closes his eyes. “He wanted a distraction, while he unleashed hell.”

“Every villain the Avengers ever put away,” Pepper agrees. “And the X-men, and the Fantastic Four.”

Tony smiles bitterly. “And Loki got his army.” His smile fades and he leans forward, reaching out to touch Pepper’s hand. “How bad is it?” he asks softly.

Pepper, lovely, brilliant Pepper who never lies to him even when it’s for his own good, squeezes his hand tight and doesn’t say a word.

+

It’s less than a week after Pepper arrives when Loki appears in Tony’s room, dressed in his Asgardian glory with his helmet carried in the crook of his arm. It’s early in the morning, Tony thinks, but he can’t tell. He hates not being able to tell.

“Your Avengers have finally discovered our location,” Loki announces. He sounds almost amused.

Tony stands, turning to face him. “Let me out.”

Loki tilts his head. “So you can tell them to stand down?”

"So I can help them kick your ass,” he replies, but it’s bravado. His stomach hurts. He’s probably getting an ulcer from this much constant exposure to Loki, surely that’s it and not fear for his friends. He has utter confidence in his team. They’ve beaten Loki a hundred times, and this won’t be any different, not even if Loki does have an army of supervillains at his back.

Loki tsks. “A shame, Tony. I would have liked to see how many of your friends would obey if you asked them not to fight me.”

 _None of them_ , Tony thinks, and then reconsiders. Thor might. Clint would maybe hesitate, would wait for someone else to make the call. Steve would, but only for a moment, confused, working through the betrayal. Natasha wouldn’t. Bruce…Bruce would. The Hulk would never.

Tony swallows, his throat dry. “Don’t hurt them,” he says in a low voice, and Loki’s expression softens.

“I would grant you any desire within my power, Anthony, but I cannot promise you that.”

“You could,” he says. “You could surrender. Just run away, Loki. Let’s go back to whatever it was before.”

Loki touches his cheek and Tony forces himself not to jerk away from it. “We are near the end now, Tony. We have long since passed the point where retreat was an option.”

“Well fuck, I didn’t get the memo, when exactly was that point?”

Loki smirks. “The first time you sat and drank with me,” he says. He leans in, brushing a soft kiss over Tony’s lips, and is gone by the time Tony’s fist reaches where his head had been.

+

Tony waits and waits, and when the door finally slides open and it’s Clint Barton standing on the other side, drawn bow in his hands, he could almost cry.

“It’s about damn time, birdbrain,” Tony starts, and then stops abruptly when Clint meets his gaze.

His eyes, just for a moment, just for one single _moment_ , are the wrong shade of blue. Clint doesn’t smile, and Tony sinks down onto the nearest piece of furniture. “No,” he says softly, shaking his head. “How’d he get you again? Another glow stick of destiny? You let him get that fucking _close,_ Clint?”

Clint adjusts his grip on his bow. “Come on,” he says. “He wants you by his side, while it’s ending.”

Tony stares at him. “While what’s ending? Shake it off, Barton. Fight it, come _on,_ he fucked around with your head once, you really gonna let him do it again?”

Clint’s eyes are bleak. They are back to the right color, not the burning, sick blue, but Tony knows it’s lurking in him somewhere. “He made me an offer,” Clint says. “This time, I didn’t say no.”

“Why,” Tony says. It’s not really a question. It’s not really an answer he wants to hear, why Clint didn’t say no, why Tony didn’t say no that day when Loki showed up in his penthouse, why _no_ is the one thing he never said and now everything is fucked to hell. Clint doesn’t answer, just takes a step back, out of the doorway, and looks at Tony expectantly.

Tony closes his eyes for a second. His lungs feel tight, like something heavy is sitting on his chest and pressing down. When he opens his eyes, Clint is still there, still waiting, still silent in a way that is so _wrong_ , fuck, Clint Barton _does not shut up_ , he is a steady stream of snark unless something is wrong.

Everything is wrong.  

Tony steps towards the threshold, across it, waits for the door to slam shut the way it always would before, but it doesn’t. Instead there is just Clint, turning to walk down the hallway, and Tony following right along behind him, following down the corridors of what he is beginning to suspect is a palace of some kind. Some of the hallways are empty, but the farther in they go the more people they see, all of them hurrying, rushing about, some dressed like soldiers, others obviously scientists.

It’s when Tony sees Coulson that he stills, jerking to a stop. Clint pauses as well, pivoting on his heel to face Tony, who looks from him and then to the dead man walking.

“Phil Coulson would never have turned sides,” Tony says. His fingers feel numb.

Coulson looks at him, but it is Darcy who answers, coming up unseen from behind. “Some of us recognize a battle that can’t be won the way you wanted,” she says. As she passes by, Tony notices that the skin on her left arm is blackened, shriveled and withering. She notes his gaze and gives a little wave with that hand, showing him a glimpse of bone in the crevasse of her decayed palm. Then she is gone, weaving her way through the crowd before he has a chance to ask, and Coulson is stepping in front of him.

Tony stares at him. “You do remember that Loki killed you, right?”

Coulson gives him an even, _no shit Sherlock_ look. It’s the same expression he wore the day he threatened to taze Tony and watch Supernanny while he drooled into a carpet. That day feels like an eternity ago, is literally a lifetime ago because Coulson _died_.

“I do,” Coulson says. “I also know that his power, in part, brought me back.”

“And you decided to what? Fight at his side like a good little soldier out of gratitude? That’s fucked up, Phil, you aren’t supposed to work for the asshole who gutted you in the chest.” Tony doesn’t bother waiting for an explanation, if Coulson would even attempt one. It doesn’t matter, after all. All that matters is that Loki has all the pieces, Tony can see them now, all lined up, Darcy and Coulson and Clint, and Tony can’t _breathe_.

“Tell me,” Tony says. He supposes that’s not a very clear demand, but Coulson answers him anyway.

“Congress has been dismantled and the White House has gone silent. We have control of all major media outlets and are monitoring the local stations that haven’t been seized yet. There has been minimal civilian loss of life, and less property damage than expected.”

“And the resistance?” Tony presses. “SHIELD? The X-Men, the Fantastic Four, the ones without teams like Spiderman and Daredevil?” He sucks in a sharp breath. “Rhodey?”

“Fury is dead,” Coulson reports evenly, like he’s not talking about his former boss, about his fucking _friend_. “Hill is imprisoned and SHIELD is under our control. Magneto has taken Xavier hostage and his Brotherhood is holding off the X-Men who are still fighting. Their front-line team has been taken out, captured where possible. A few of them have gone to ground—Storm, most notably, managed to escape the country and is taking refuge in Wakanda with a small group of others. Doom has taken care of the Fantastic Four. The only one unaccounted for is the Human Torch, and knowing his temper he’ll surface sooner or later. Several of the individual agents have escaped. If they’re smart, they won’t get involved. If they aren’t, they’ll be taken care of in due time. Colonel Rhodes has been apprehended and is being held. He is unharmed, to the best of my knowledge.”

“And the Avengers?” Tony asks. He feels disconnected from his body, like he could float away at any moment.

Coulson hesitates. “Hawkeye, obviously, is accounted for. Banner has been contained and is unharmed but under sedation to avoid an appearance of the Hulk. Thor has been captured. He’s being held, stripped of the powers of Mjolnir. Dr. Foster is with him, also unharmed.”

“Steve? Natasha?”

“Widow is down,” Clint says from the side. His voice is dull, cracking just a bit. There’s a disturbing lack of emotion in his voice for the words that just came out of his mouth. Tony’s hands curl into fists, his short nails digging into his palms.

“Is. She. Dead?” he grits out.

“No,” Coulson says. “But it is unclear as to whether or not she’ll pull through.”

Tony keeps his eyes on Clint, whose shoulders hunch up. “You did it,” he says. “You’re the one who took her down.”

Clint looks at him, eyes flashing. “I had to.”

Tony doesn’t dignify that with a response. “Steve?” he asks, his voice rusty.

Coulson never flinches. He doesn’t now, when he lifts his chin and looks Tony right in the eye and says, “Captain Rogers died twenty-seven minutes ago.”

Tony lets that sink in. It refuses to do so, sitting heavy on his chest. _Captain Rogers died twenty-seven minutes ago_. But that’s impossible. Steve is Captain fucking America. Captain America doesn’t die. _Steve_ doesn’t die. Steve is Tony’s friend and he pretends he doesn’t know how to use the DVR when he totally does and he sketches in Central Park on Sunday afternoons and he helps little old ladies cross the street because he is the most genuinely _nice_ person that Tony has ever met and sometimes Tony forgets that he was a soldier until he starts cursing a blue streak in the middle of a battle and no. Steve doesn’t die. Steve can’t die. Not when it’s Tony’s fault.

“Take me to Loki,” he says.

+

Tony expects to find Loki sitting smugly on a throne, crowned and gloating. Instead, Loki is staring pensively out a window, and when he turns towards Tony his expression is more open than Tony has ever seen. Clint bows—Clint fucking _bows_ —and then leaves the room, the door clicking closed behind him. Tony is sure that he’ll be waiting on the other side, his bow in his hands, guarding to make sure that no one goes in and that Tony doesn’t try to make a mad dash escape.

(He would go for the window, if he were going to make a break for it. He’s sure that Clint knows that though, sure Loki knows it as well, is sure that he wouldn’t make it out if he did try and sure as hell would never reach the ground.)

“What do you want from me?” Tony asks. He keeps his distance from Loki. He needs the space between them to keep his thinking straight.

“Rule with me,” Loki says. His voice is low and earnest. It could be a lie, it could _always_ be a lie, but Tony doesn’t think it is. “That’s what I want from you. Rule by my side. When I am cruel, you shall temper me. When I am harsh, you shall be the balm. I am vengeance and you are justice. Together we can create a utopia. Together, nothing can _stop_ us, Tony.”

Tony stares at him. “How many people died for this utopia of yours, Loki?”

“There are always casualties.”

“One of them was my friend,” Tony says in a low voice. “Steve.”

Loki takes a step forward and Tony shies back. Loki spread his hands out before him, an almost helpless gesture. “I regret Captain Rogers’ death, Tony. I wished to avoid it, but he gave us no choice. I saved as many of your friends as I could. Your Rhodey, your Banner, your Barton. I chose leniency where I could. Please, believe that I tried to spare you pain.”

“Was this always your plan? Right from the beginning?”

“You have always been the key, Tony,” Loki says. He sounds almost tired. “At first I only wanted to prevent you from stopping me. Now I am offering you everything.” He steps forward, and Tony doesn’t step back. “This is  _your_ world. You know its problems. You can erase poverty. You can end hunger. You can usher in a new age of technology. You can bring peace. You call yourself a futurist, Tony. And I am offering you the future. Take it." 

“And if I say no?”

Loki tilts his head, not quite smiling. “ _Can_ you?”

+

The crown is heavy, heavier than anything he has ever carried. The people cheer when he steps out onto the balcony, Loki at his side. “They love you,” Loki whispers in his ear. “See our world, Tony? It is ours for the creating.”

Tony lifts his hand in a wave. The crowd roars louder, the bright green and gold banners of their new kingdom rippling in the air. Loki’s arm wraps around Tony’s waist, tugging him in closer, holding him tight.

“Yes,” Tony says. “It is.”


End file.
